Linked
by picascribit
Summary: When Harry has trouble sleeping in the nights following Sirius's death in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, he turns to the one person who just might understand. HLxNL, June 1996.


Harry could not sleep. In the darkness of the Gryffindor dormitory, he lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to erase from his mind the expression on his godfather's face as he had fallen through the Veil and out of Harry's life forever. But the wound was still too raw, and Sirius was still too present in Harry's thoughts to afford him any rest.

_Sirius. Dead. My fault._

He felt utterly alone and miserable. The one person he could have talked to about these feelings - who might have understood - was the one person he would never be able to talk to again. The never-ending scream of rage, sorrow and frustration threatened to overwhelm him once more. If he gave himself over to it, he feared it would carry him away, and he would never again be able to return to himself.

A gasp broke the stillness of the dormitory, and Harry heard someone sit up suddenly across the room. Neville, awakened by one of his nightmares. Harry could hear him breathing as if he had just run a race.

Ever since that horrible night the previous week, and the dawn revelations in Dumbledore's office that had followed, Harry had been very aware of Neville; watching his movements, listening to his words, finding quirks of personality he had never noticed before. Neville, who might so easily have had Harry's life, had it not been for the unfathomable conviction of Voldemort's that Harry posed the greater threat to his power.

Harry could not help wondering what their lives might have been like, but for that choice. Would Harry's parents be alive today? Would they be mad, living in St Mungo's closed ward, as Mr and Mrs Longbottom were now? Would Sirius ever have gone to Azkaban, or died in the Department of Mysteries? Would Alice Longbottom have sacrificed herself to save her son? Would Neville have a scar?

Harry felt a sudden rush of sympathy toward the boy gasping out his night terrors across the room. He realised Neville's lot in life was perhaps worse than his own. Harry had no trouble telling people that his parents were dead, and he often got sympathy for it. But madness bore a certain stigma, and Neville never spoke of his parents - not even to his friends.

Along with his sympathy came a wave of gratitude. Days ago, in the Department of Mysteries, Neville had proved himself, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry in battle, not backing down, even under torture. He had stood bravely, even after Ron and Hermione and the rest had fallen. Neville had been there with him. He had known what he was facing, and he had faced it with courage, coming through it bloodied and battered, but strong and true as any Gryffindor could hope to be.

_He and I are not so different._

The thought, coupled with the outpouring of feeling, compelled Harry out of his bed and across the cool floor in his bare feet. Neville's pain might not be so raw as his own, and he might not realise how closely his fate was linked with Harry's, but Harry was sure that Neville would understand the loneliness and the emptiness he felt. Neville, who had no close friend in whom to confide, who had no family but his austere grandmother and unresponsive parents.

Standing outside the curtains surrounding Neville's bed, he hesitated, unsure what to say.

"Neville?" he whispered at last. "Are you all right?"

"I'b fide," Neville sniffed.

His broken nose had been healed quickly and cleanly by Madam Pomfrey upon their return from the Department of Mysteries days ago. It was tears that congested his voice now.

Harry closed his eyes briefly and took a chance. "Neville, can I - come in?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

He heard Neville sniff sharply, trying to clear his head, and as he opened the hangings to climb onto the bed beside him, he thought he saw the other boy surreptitiously wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his pyjamas.

"I wanted to ask you something," Harry said before his courage could fail him.

"What?"

"Well, it's - about your parents."

Neville stiffened. Harry had met Neville's mother last Christmas at St Mungo's, but he had never spoken of that meeting with Neville, nor told Neville what he knew about why his parents were the way they were.

"They're - they're in St Mungo's," Neville said at last, reluctantly.

Harry's hand clumsily covered Neville's in a quick sympathetic gesture.

_We are linked, you and I._

"I know," he said. "That's not what I wanted to ask you about. Or, not exactly."

"What, then?"

He was staring at Harry's hand on his own. Harry suddenly realised what that must look like, and withdrew it hastily.

"I just wanted to know, is it awful for you?"

Neville's brow furrowed, uncomprehending.

"I mean," Harry continued in a hurried whisper, "my parents are dead. I can't even remember them, really. Sometimes, when I think about it too much, it's horrible. And then, when Sirius -" He broke off.

Neville nodded in commiseration. "You said he was your friend."

"He's - he _was_ my godfather," Harry replied softly. "He was my dad's best friend."

"Oh."

Neville shifted closer to him without appearing to notice he had done so. There was safety and comfort in numbers.

"If I hadn't brought you all to the Department of Mysteries," Harry went on miserably, "he might not have -"

"Oh, Harry!" Neville breathed. "You mustn't think that. It - it was _Voldemort_ who made you go there."

It was the first time Harry had ever heard Neville say the Dark wizard's name.

"And we all chose to come with you, didn't we?" continued Neville. "And Sirius - blame Bellatrix Lestrange if you must blame someone." Neville's voice spat her name into the darkness like a bitter potion.

_We are linked, you and I._

"I know what she did," Harry said softly. "To you - to your family."

Neville looked suddenly hunted, fearful.

"I found out by accident, last year," Harry confessed. "Dumbledore made me promise not to tell anyone. But I wouldn't have, anyway. If you'd wanted us to know, you'd have told us. But - we never asked."

Neville shook his head. "I don't talk about it. If I talk about it, I have to remember."

"I know," Harry replied bitterly.

"I saw her do it, you know." Neville said suddenly.

It was Harry's turn to be confused. "Do what?"

"When she and the others - when they tortured my mum and dad."

Neville's voice wavered slightly, and it occurred to Harry that Neville had probably never said the words out loud before.

"You were _there_?" he whispered, shocked. "You remember? But - you must have been dead young at the time."

Neville shook his head. "I don't really _remember_ it. The Ministry convinced Gran to have me Obliviated, but it didn't work very well, because I was too young. I think that's probably why my memory is so bad." There was the ghost of a joke in his voice.

Harry realised that his hand was back on Neville's. He did not know how long it had been there.

_We are linked._

"I dream about it, though," Neville was saying, his eyes, like Harry's, fixed on their joined hands. He did not pull away. "I dreamed it tonight again. When I wake up, I don't remember anything about it. Except the screaming."

Harry felt an involuntary shiver run through Neville's body and transfer between their fingers to run through him as well.

"I know what you mean," Harry found himself saying. "In third year, when the Dementors were here, that's what I heard every time they got close; my mum screaming. She was pleading with Voldemort not to - not to kill me."

"Oh. I didn't know."

Neville's fingers shifted to lace through his, squeezing in rough empathy.

_Linked, you and I._

"But it must have been just as bad for you," Harry persisted, turning to him. "I mean, the Dementors must have made you remember -"

"They did," Neville admitted. "But maybe I'm too used to the nightmares. It wasn't such a shock for me. And my parents aren't dead."

"No," Harry said bitterly. "But is it really better, how they are? I wouldn't think so."

He was worried for a split second that this statement might have crossed a line, but Neville seemed to understand what he was asking.

"It's better. And it's worse." He sighed. "I get to see them and talk to them and - and hug them and stuff. But they don't know me or Gran or even each other. My own _mum_ doesn't know who I am!" he burst out heatedly, speaking rather louder than he had intended.

Nearby, Ron snorted in his sleep and turned over, making Harry jump and pull his hand out of Neville's grasp. The two boys stared at one another, flustered, then looked away again, trying to gather the threads of their thoughts and emotions under tighter control.

"She would have been proud. Your mum, " Harry said. "Of you. In the Ministry. Your dad, too. You went, knowing Voldemort might be there, and you fought, and you did better than Ron or Hermione or anyone. And you never seemed afraid."

"I was, though," Neville admitted, earnest wide eyes meeting Harry's. "More than I've ever been of anything. It just didn't seem like it would've mattered if I'd said so."

Harry chose his next words carefully. He needed to say them, so that Neville would understand how grateful he was, but the strong sentiment made him feel self-conscious - more self-conscious even than holding Neville's hand had done.

"It was - an honour to have you there with me, Neville," he said, looking straight into the other boy's brown eyes. "You're a true Gryffindor. No one could say otherwise."

"Oh. Thanks." Neville looked both pleased and embarrassed by the high compliment. Then he added, "I had a good teacher."

It was Harry's turn to blush. "Well, you worked hard. I never taught you that."

"No," Neville replied. "But you did teach me that I could do anything I wanted, if I put my mind to it."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he leaned forward. His lips were soft on Harry's, and the touch was brief, but Harry felt the shock of it from the bottoms of his feet to the top of his head. He did not draw back, though; it was Neville who moved away first.

"Good night, Harry," he whispered. "I'm glad we talked."

Harry walked back to his bed and pulled the covers over himself, wondering what had just happened, but feeling oddly comforted, all the same.


End file.
